


Driving Lessons

by Imbroglio



Category: Marvel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4387682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imbroglio/pseuds/Imbroglio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers thinks Bucky Barnes should know how to drive. Bucky Barnes knows how to drive, thank you very much. He just doesn't want to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Driving Lessons

     “This is an ugly car,” Barnes said.

     Steve had to fold himself almost in half to get in, which was just further evidence that he shouldn’t accept favors from Stark, especially when it came to cars, because Stark was pretty much the size of Steve’s left leg and all Stark’s cars were Stark-sized.

     “It’s fine,” Steve said. “It’s a nice one, I’ve driven it.”

     “It’s a cigarette pack,” Barnes said. “It’s a meat packer. My kneecaps are compressing into my femurs. I’m going to get out wearing the windshield around my ears.”

     “You’ve got to learn in something, okay? Just start it.”

     “I know how to drive,” Barnes muttered. “I’ve been driving for more years than you’ve been alive.”

     “I’ve been alive for almost a century, Buck.”

     The frustrating thing was that some of the few memories Barnes had recovered, like how he could vent his frustration under his breath because Steve was half-deaf and wouldn’t hear him and drag the argument out again, had turned out not to apply anymore. “You spent 70 years of that snoring in the Arctic, idiot.”

     Steve held up the key. “You wanna drive?”

     “Not this tin can.”

     But he took the key anyway. He stuck it in the ignition, but before he got it past blinky-lights-and-blaring-radio position, Steve said, “You’re supposed to put your seatbelt on first.”

     Barnes slowly, deliberately, put on his seatbelt. It pressed against his shoulder. He took it off again.

     “Bucky,” Steve said. “Just put the seatbelt on, okay?”

     “I have driven so many cars in the last 70 years. Do you know how many cars I’ve driven in the last 70 years.”

     “Um, two? Three?”

     “At least. I know more about driving than you do. I’ve driven on battlefields.”

     “There are no speed limits on battlefields. Which I know, because I have driven. On battlefields. In France. Where I, in fact, learned to drive.”

     “Speed limits,” Barnes snorted.

     Steve turned to him. “I am going to teach you to drive,” he said calmly, “because I’m sick of chauffeuring you around. I don’t have time to drive you to the grocery store every time you run out of conditioner. Also, you shed all over my dashboard. So put on your seat belt and start the car.”

     Barnes put on his seatbelt and started the blasted car. It rattled under his hands like a bag of rust.

     It actually felt nice, real nice, but there was no way on God’s green earth he was going to admit that to anyone.

     Steve had driven them out to the some small town out in the middle of nowhere, because apparently he didn’t trust Barnes to drive in Washington, which was stupid because Barnes distinctly remembered driving through Washington, or something equally crowded, on at least one occasion. People had died, yes, but he’d done it. He could definitely handle Podunk, USA, where main street was the only one with two lines and the traffic light was definitely a vanity item.

     “All right. Now just drive straight ahead, okay? Turn right at the light. Speed limit’s 25, by the way.”

     Barnes considered blasting through, but on second thought he kind of liked the car, just a little bit, so maybe he’d wait until they were somewhere long and flat and empty where he could enjoy it. He checked his rearview mirrors and his blind spot and pulled out. He drove 40.23 km/h down the street for .48 kilometers, then slowed. The light was red. He turned on his blinker, checked his lane for oncoming traffic, turned slowly, yet not so slowly that he annoyed the one person behind him—come on, there were barely enough people in this town to warrant a paved street, much less two vehicles using it at the same time—and sped back up to 40.23 km/h, heading east. In the right lane and everything.

     “Wow, look at that, I know how a traffic light works. Can we be done now?”

     Steve had that stupid stubborn look on his face. “Just humor me on this one,” he said. Almost suspiciously, like Barnes had faked an understanding of the deep mysteries of traffic lights.

      “If you don’t want to drive me places, I can just take the bus,” Barnes muttered.

      Steve’ face went from stubborn to guilty. Barnes cursed himself. He had to stop muttering this stuff, it was constantly dragging him into conversations he didn’t want to have. He could just think it. So far as he knew, Steve’ superhero hearing wasn’t accompanied by telepathy, thank the powers that be.

     “I didn’t mean that,” Steve said. “I just—“

     “Now where do I go?”

     “—want to make sure—um—left. At the barn.”

     “Hey look. Cows.”

     “Don’t honk at the cattle, Bucky.”

     Barnes stopped honking. “Look at ‘em run,” he said, frowning a little less than before. “They’re gonna be milking butter tonight.”

      “Those aren’t dairy cows.”

     “What are you, some kind of cow expert?”

     “Clint told me that the big brown ones are meat. He seemed very insistent about it.”

     “The other birdwatcher? What’s he care what kind of cows are what?”

     Steve shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe he sidelines as a dairy farmer or something.”

     “Maybe it’s some weird future thing. Like, here’s my giant phone, here’s my seven million kinds of dry cereal, here’s my cow-watching diary.”

     “No, I think it’s just Clint.”

     They came to another clump of cattle. Barnes honked once, because it annoyed Steve. And also because he liked the way the horn sounded, a little bit. People would definitely know he was coming.

     “What did you have to do to get Stark to let you borrow this thing?” he asked, after a short silence that threatened to turn into a serious conversation where Steve would communicate and Barnes would glower at the road because he wasn’t good at communicating.

     “I signed over my soul.”

     “And you didn’t pick something bigger?”

     “Apparently my soul isn’t worth enough to get a choice.”

     “See that dirt road up there?”

     Against Steve’s protest, Barnes turned onto the dirt road, which was more mud than dirt, and wonderfully riddled with potholes. By the time he let Steve convince him to turn back onto a civilized road, Stark’s pretty little car was splattered with mud. He allowed himself a private grin.

     “You don’t seem to appreciate my sacrifice,” Steve said. “Hope you’ve got enough quarters for a car wash.”

     “Stark can afford his own car wash. Now where?”

     “There’s a town up ahead.”

     “Oh no,” Barnes said. “A town. I can’t handle this kind of pressure.”

     Steve tried to lean back, which was enjoyable to watch, because he had absolutely nowhere to go. “I just want to make sure you can drive.”

     “Battlefields. Bombs. Pressure.”

     “It’s different, okay? If you wreck in town, there’s innocent people in the way.”

     “I think you’re just sick of Stark,” Barnes said. “You just want to drive his cool cars without him yapping at you.”

     Steve smiled and rolled down his window, which blew Barnes’ hair into his face, which was not safe for driving, Steve, it was a distraction. “They are pretty cool,” Steve said. “And it’s a good day for a drive.”

     The next town had no traffic lights, but it had a one way street for no reason and two yield signs, which Steve directed him through, because Steve was an idiot who seemed to think that Barnes couldn’t figure out a yield sign on his own.

     They were out of that town quick enough, although Steve asked him to parallel park, and he told Steve that if he needed to get into a tight spot he could just pick up the car and put it there.

     “Really?” Steve said.

     “Yes,” Barnes said. He could push it there, anyway. It might take a little while, but he could probably get it there eventually. The metal arm had to be good for something.

     And the road in front of them was just flat enough, just straight enough. Barnes glanced at Steve.

     “I bet any car of Stark’s can go pretty fast.”

     “Probably—oh crap, don’t you _dare_ —“

      Barnes jammed his foot down on the pedal and the engine came to life. It was awesome. Steve’s knuckles turned white, his knees pressed against the dashboard, as Barnes sped around the curves just a fraction too fast, flew over the hills, sped far too fast for anyone to ever catch him. The wind shrieked through the open window, whipping his hair around his face. The engine roared. Steve shouted.

     “What?”

     “That is an _officer_ and you are going _120_ and this is _not_ how I want to die!” Steve shouted. It was the totally-manly superhero version of a shriek. Barnes slowed down.

     “Oh,” he said. “Do I have to pull over?”

     “Yes.” Steve pressed his lips together.

     “That’s disappointing.” Bucky sighed and pulled over to the side of the road as the boxy little squad car huffed up behind them, sirens wailing and lights flashing as if the officer was stopping a violent crime instead of interrupting what could have been a great fifteen minutes.

     “Hello, officer,” he said, flashing a grin like he’d seen Stark do in somewhat similar situations (which Steve was never, ever supposed to find out about.) “Is there a problem?”

     The officer, who was barely an adult and also about 5 feet high, which meant she probably had a lot to prove, drew herself up to her full height or lack thereof. Barnes almost felt sorry for her, which is why he put his metal arm at the top of the steering wheel, so that she wasn’t caught off guard when she eventually saw it.

     “Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?” she asked professionally, although her eyes flickered over the arm and her shoulders tensed.

     Barnes glanced over at Steve, who was hunched in his seat and had his face turned a little to the side. Ha. Captain America in a speeding vehicle. “For an autograph?” he said. Which was rude, but he had been almost having a very good time.

     Steve groaned. “Don’t be an jerk,” he muttered. Because sure, he got to mutter, he wasn’t constantly talking to people who used to be half-deaf and now weren’t.

     The officer’s face pinched. “You were driving 126 miles per hour in a 55 speed zone,” she said. “May I see your license and registration, please?”

     Steve opened a snazzy little compartment on the dash which didn’t quite fit under the name glove compartment and silently handed him some papers, which he handed to the officer. She took them.

     “Drivers’ license?”

     “Um,” said Barnes. He glanced at Steve. “I don’t actually have one.”

     The officer glanced into the car, then glanced into the car again. “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you—“

     “Captain America,” Barnes said. He muttered, “Star-spangled man with a plan,” and didn’t mind when Steve heard it.

     “Of course,” the officer said, under her breath like she didn’t intend them to hear it, which Barnes totally related to. “Why couldn’t it be a simple traffic violation.”

     “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Steve said. “I have my license, if that’s any help?”

     The officer glanced at the registration. “And you’re driving Tony Stark’s car,” she said.

     “Yes, ma’am.”

     She sighed, softly. She looked tired.

     “I’m sorry,” Steve said again.

     She shook her head. “Why is Captain flippin’ America in the passenger seat of one of Tony Stark’s cars driving 126 miles per hour with—“ she glanced doubtfully at the arm again.

     “James Barnes,” Barnes supplied.

     “—James Barnes, an unlicensed driver, in the driver’s seat?”

     Steve looked at his hands sheepishly. “Driving lessons,” he said.

     She tapped her fingers against her leg. “They did not cover this during training,” she said under her breath again. She rubbed her neck.

    “Look,” she finally said. “I’m really grateful for all the saving-the-world stuff you do. Like, seriously. But I can’t let you off without a fine, at least.”

     “That is absolutely okay,” Steve said.

     She took their information, wrote up the paperwork, and then handed Barnes a ticket. “Again,” she said. “Definitely appreciate having the Avengers around. Thanks for stopping the aliens and Hydra and all that.”

     Steve flushed, like he’d never had somebody thank him, and thanked her for not arresting them, or something. Barnes tapped the wheel.

     Steve turned to him as the officer pulled away. “I’ll drive,” he said.

     They traded places.

     “I saw her,” Barnes said. “As we drove past.”

     “Oh, that makes me feel better,” Steve said.

     “I don’t want to drive,” Barnes finally said. “If I wanted to drive, I’d go take the test and get my license. I mean, after I figured out the whole legally-dead thing.”

     “Why not?”

     He shrugged. “I can get around without it.”

     Steve stared at the road. “It helps a lot,” he said. “Getting your bearings on the 21st century.”

     “Helps you, maybe,” Barnes muttered.

     Steve turned to him. “You don’t think it would help you?”

     Barnes shook his head. “Forget it.”

     “But—“

     “Just forget it,” he repeated. “I’ll take the test, okay? If it makes you feel better. But if I don’t want to drive around, you don’t try to make me. Deal?”

     Steve paused. Then nodded. “Deal.”

     “You were a jerk to that officer, though,” he added after a few moments of silence.

     “I’ll write her a note of apology,” Barnes said.

     “That’s a good idea.”

     Barnes hadn’t meant that seriously, but after a moment of thought he decided to pretend he had. Steve might remember about the car wash. Steve didn’t have to act like such a deacon, though. Barnes had seen his traffic record.

     “I guess I can still do conditioner runs,” Steve said. “If you want me too.”

~

     “Why do I have a fine with a car I haven’t driven in six months?” Stark asked. “Also, what are we celebrating?”

     Steve glanced up over the chocolate cake he had insisted on making. He had frosted it and everything. “Buck’s got his driver’s license,” he said.

     “In under five attempts?” Stark asked. “I’m impressed.”

     Barnes glowered at him. “

     “And I meant to tell you about the fine—“ Steve said.

     “But you were too busy making cake,” Stark said. “Got it.”

     Don’t you dare offer him a piece, Barnes thought. This is my party.

     “Want a piece?”

     Screw you, Steve.

     Stark sat down and started consuming Barnes’ celebratory cake as if it hadn’t taken four tests and three traumatized DMV officials to earn it.

     Barnes ignored him and ate his cake and thought about all the cows he could honk at if Steve wasn't in the car.

     

    

    

**Author's Note:**

> idk it seemed like a good idea at the time.


End file.
